Chapter Text
"Fellas. Someone ripped this in half."
A theme (and variations) on 'what the fuck' rings out as the entire team approaches the two halves of Ted's Believe sign. It's Trent who hangs back, snapping his notebook shut as he considers the scene in front of him. Ripped, repaired, and rehung so that no one was the wiser.
Until now.
Can You Believe It? Another Scandal at Richmond.
One day he'll stop crafting headlines whenever something happens at the club. That day isn't today and tomorrow doesn't look very good either.
Trent fights the urge to rub his temples in annoyance at himself and his apparent inability to break these old habits of his. Instead, he clasps his hands behind his back with his notebook in one hand. He hangs back, far enough to not interfere — the team is spooked enough as it is without adding Trent Crimm, Interloper to the mix. Frankly, he's just as uneasy as the rest of them. The ripped sign feels like an attack, somehow. On the team. On Ted.
Two questions swirl about: who would rip the sign and who would hang it back up, hoping no one would notice?
Well, the first question is the mystery of the century but the second... if that doesn't have Ted Lasso's MO written all over it, Trent will give up yet another job with the team. Of course Ted would be the one to pretend like nothing's wrong when, really, everything is falling apart.
Which leads Trent back to question one: who would hate Ted and the team that much to destroy their symbol of unity? No one at Richmond would ever do such a thing... right?
He slips out behind the rest of the team, through Ted-and-Beard's office and into the small side room he shares with Roy. The co-gaffer grunts by way of a hello.
Look at that. Three weeks ago it was a growl and now he's been upgraded to a grunt! Growth from Roy Fucking Kent. Will wonders ever cease?
"Good luck with the lads today," Trent says by way of a greeting. "They're in an uproar."
Roy rolls his eyes. "Of course they are. West Ham this week."
Trent hums in response, though he glances back toward the dressing room. The West Ham match isn't the only reason. It's on the tip of his tongue to say something, to tell Roy what happened, but in the end, he says nothing. This isn't his fight. He's the recent addition. He is the one who still has to earn his place here at Nelson Road. It's not enough to be accepted just because Ted and Roy say it's okay. (Or, in Roy's case, merely tolerable.)
If the others are ever going to trust him, Trent knows he has to prove that he can keep a secret.
The irony is, no one knows just how many secrets he's holding close to his chest; or how many people he's currently protecting. It's exhausting.
Besides, it's been a whole 12 hours and Trent's not breathed a word of Colin's tête-à-tête with his mystery man to anyone! See? Character growth from everyone, not just Roy!
Trent, the night Ted kissed him outside his flat, once thought holding a secret was the most liberating feeling, but as they continue to pile up he's not so sure any longer. Any more of these damn secrets and he might explode.
With another grunt, Roy exits the office — Trent's not surprised to see him go. Even though they've reached a tentative truce, Roy has yet to willingly spend more than five minutes in his office when Trent's occupied the spare desk.
That's fine, Trent needs time to himself to think.
Settling down at his desk, Trent slips the elastic band off of his notebook. He taps his pen on a blank page a few times and then begins to jot dot down suspects in the Case of the Torn Believe. (It's a working title.) Annoyingly, however, as soon as he adds a name, it's far too easy to discount each one in turn:
- Jamie: He and Coach Lasso didn't get along that first season, but there's no way the sign would have stayed up in "one" piece for two seasons without falling.
- Rebecca: See Jamie.
- Roy: See Jamie.
- Higgins: See Jamie.
- Keeley: Too short. Also, see Jamie.
There's a trend forming.
Trent's rubbing his temples —pen in hand — when Roy storms back into the office, kicking his empty chair and sending it skittering across the floor. The chair slams into the opposite wall and crashes to the ground with a resounding smash.
For his part, Trent jumps a mile, damn near impaling his right eye with his ridiculously expensive pen.
Roy, somehow, manages to combine a fuck and a snarl all in one syllable, and it's impressive as hell.
"You growled?" Trent asks, lifting an eyebrow at Roy, heart beating out of his chest..
"Don't wanna fuckin' hear it, Crimm."
"All I'm saying is the chair didn't do anything to offend you," He replies.
Another growl and Trent lifts one hand by way of acknowledgement-slash-surrender.
"The fucking sign."
Huh, news travels fast. Trent fights the urge to glance at his watch and time the gossip train.
"What sign?" Trent asks innocently, turning to a fresh page of his notebook so he can hide his suspect list.
"Stop takin' fuckin' notes like you're studyin' for your A-levels," Roy all but snarls. Trent, dutifully, sets his pen down in the gutter of his notebook. He shows his empty hands like he's trying to placate a dog who's convinced you're hiding a treat. "Someone ripped Lasso's fuckin' Believe sign."
"What!?" Trent tries for incredulous but it comes out all wrong to his ears. An actor he definitely is not. Luckily, Roy's still bitching and it's like Trent never even spoke.
"The team's beside themselves. This is the last fuckin' thing we needed before West Ham."
Trent smirks. "I didn't think you lads were superstitious."
The glare Roy throws in his direction is epic.
Trent swivels his chair back to look at Roy, a thoughtful expression on his face. "There has to be a way to find out who's responsible."
The answer comes to him in an instant, so brilliant in its simplicity that he can't believe no one else thought of it first. Or that it took him this long to come up with it. (Maybe some of those journalistic tendencies of his are starting to fade a bit at last...)
"You got a crystal ball hiding up yer arse?" Roy growls.
Charming visual. "No, but there's CCTV around here, right?"
Roy looks at him as if he's an idiot. Point taken.
"I meant that rhetorically," Trent continues. "That means—"
"I know what it fuckin' means. Get on with it, will ya or shut the fuck up, Crimm."
Trent crosses one leg over the other. "Stands to reason the CCTV would have captured whoever did this, right?" he asks, tapping his chin thoughtfully, chewing on his lower lip as he gauges Roy's reaction.
"Fuuuuuuck," Roy replies, righting his chair, then sinking down into it. He rubs his hands over his face. Exactly the response Trent was going for. "Great fucking idea, but there's got to be hundreds of hours to go through. Who has the time for that?"
Trent shrugs. "Get me the footage and I'll have it done before the end of the day."
Roy gives him a look that clearly says I don't know whether to cuss you out or kiss you, you brilliant man but in the end, he does nothing more than grunt. Trent'll take that as a glowing Roy Kent sign of approval.
He can do without that kiss, though.
* * *
It's nearly half-eight by the time Trent finishes stitching together the rest of the video. His head is killing him, but he wants to get this done before the coaches leave for the night.
The video might have only been five minutes long, but it took him hours to stitch the two camera viewpoints together. He's proud of his work, though, because some needy part of him wants to show how useful he is.
Now that it's done, however, he's afraid of how it could be used. There's a part of this that's depressing — it's hard to watch a man be so blinded by anger. True, Trent didn't see the day-in-day-out of the team dynamics, just what he saw on the pitch, but he thought Nate was happy with his position. Try as he might, Trent can't come up with a why — and the only one who can explain himself is Mr Shelley.
Trent saves the file to a thumb drive and ejects it from the laptop. Looking down at the little red device in his palm, he weighs his options. He could bury this in his desk and pretend it doesn't exist. Sorry, so sorry, but there was nothing to see on the CCTV. Add another secret to the pile.
It's also his ticket to the inner circle. It might be incredibly self-serving, but Trent is a little too desperate for acceptance from Richmond's leadership. Sure, he's concerned that Roy will want to use it for some misguided motivational bullshit. The team is too fragile right now that the slightest thing could push them off the deep end.
Even the great Ted Lasso might not be able to reel them back in before the damage is done.
And, most importantly, it'd show everyone that he has the team's best interests at heart.
Groaning, he pushes his glasses further up his forehead so he can rub the fatigue out of his eyes. He'll show this to Beard and Roy first. Let them decide what happens next. Then it's no longer his decision.
There's another niggling hunch in the back of his mind that says Ted already knows what it took Trent a good five hours to piece together. If Ted is aware — he's not sure if letting the man see video proof is a good idea.
He's even more of a mess than usual as of late.
Shutting down the laptop, the thumb drive burning a proverbial hole in his hand, he enters the head coach's office with two sharp knocks on the door jam to announce himself.
"Y'get it?" Roy asks, glancing over from the magnetic soccer field he's standing in front of. There's no discernible pattern to the pieces. Instead of a set 4-5-1 — it just looks like a jumbled mess.
Ah, the oft-seen 'magnet ball' formation. Playing like primary-age school children is certainly a strategy Shelley wouldn't see coming...
"I did indeed," Trent replies, holding the drive between his fingers, "but I feel like you both should see it before we show it to Coach Lasso." A pause as he shakes his head. "If I'm being honest, I don't know if he should see it. Well, I'll let it speak for itself."
Trent inserts the drive into the laptop on the desk and pulls up the video, standing back to watch the other two men's reactions. Beard remains seated while Roy braces his hands on the desk, leaning over as far as he can to watch. Meanwhile, Trent slips his glasses on, pushing them down the bridge of his nose so he's better able to glance between the duo and his video with little trouble. The moment Nate appears, Beard and Roy damn near start snarling in unison. By the end of the five minutes, Roy looks ready to launch the computer across the room and Beard has snapped a pencil in half.
It's actually a calmer reaction than Trent imagined.
"I'm gonna fuckin' kill him," Roy growls. "With his own stupid smug face, I'm gonna fuckin' murder him."
"I'll help!" Beard gleefully adds. "Slowly. Veeeeeery sloooowly."
Okay, that's more like it.
Trent leans over the two and hits pause. "Your twin dreams of homicide aside, we have the answer as to what happened." He purses his lips. "That said, does it do any good for Coach Lasso to see? Or anyone else, for that matter?"
Roy looks back at him like he's an idiot. "It's called fuckin' motivation, Crimm. You've hung around this sport long enough to know what that sign means to those kids. I say they see it. Light a fire under their arses. They'll wanna fuckin' destroy those little pricks at West Ham and I say we let 'em."
Shit. That's what Trent was afraid of.
Beard looks thoughtful, then nods. "One of your better ideas, Roy."
Trent asked for opinions, and he got them. But as both men speak, Trent realises he made the wrong call in letting them decide. They're spouting the most ridiculous notion ever — and that includes Zara's idea to rename avocados to Zavocados. The other two gaffers only care about winning this week. It's sad, especially coming from Beard. The Lassoian Way is supposed to be all about teamwork.
Winning shouldn't be everything.
The video should be deleted, destroyed, and forgotten about.
You edited it. You wanted everyone to see it, didn't you?
His inner monologue poses a good question... and one Trent doesn't have an answer to either.
In the end, Ted saves him from any further introspection. It also means the video's about to be fair game.
"Oh," Ted says as he all but bursts into his office, phone in hand, though his voice sounds tired. It's missing some of its usual pep and Trent's wondering what's wrong. Maybe this is an epically bad night to share even more bad news with the gaffer. Trent looks to Beard; to the one person who knows Ted better than anyone, hoping that he'll put a stop to this.
"What are y'all still doing here?" Ted asks, glancing between the assembled men.
"Coach," Beard begins, his arms crossed in front of his chest, and annoyance clearly evident in his tone, "you're gonna wanna watch this."
Or not.
Roy's fists are braced on the desk, and Trent can't help but wonder if Roy's imagining pummeling Nate's face right now. Trent straightens, one hand on his hip, curious about Ted's reaction to all this.
"Ooooh! Is it one of them videos of a military parent coming home after a long tour?" Ted asks, coming to stand behind Beard's shoulder. Trent removes his glasses at last, just in time to exchange a glance with Ted. The cheerfulness in Ted's voice sounds forced, but maybe that's just his imagination. Beard still isn't commenting, and Beard knows Ted better than any of them. "'Cause if so, I'm gonna be eating tears and snot for dinner."
"Not quite," Trent chimes in and the smile instantly fades from Ted's face. He and Ted exchange a long look. I'm sorry, he tries to say with his eyes but Ted doesn't seem to understand. "Hmm," Trent adds, almost as an afterthought, lifting his eyebrows and offering a smile that is nowhere close to reaching his eyes, but it's as if Ted can't read any of his almost-silent communication.
He doesn't expect Roy to pick up on the increased familiarity between them. Coach Beard, on the other hand...
Well, if he's noticed anything, he's yet to demand they get a room or some other foolishness. Then again, thanks to a slight eyebrow lift and head tilt from Beard, Trent's realising that Beard isn't an idiot. He knows there's a lot more to their relationship than just friendship.
Not that it's a relationship.
Just two friends who like to snog from time to time.
Nothing more.
All that comes of Trent's little eyebrow wiggle directed at Ted is the tiniest hint of a blush colouring Ted's cheeks as he turns. Trent can't help but smile — this one genuine — hating and loving the way warmth spreads through his body at the smallest interaction with Ted. Fuck, he's got it bad.
Replacing his glasses, Trent leans in as well, watching the video of Nate for what feels like the millionth viewing. At Nate's first attempt to jump and get tear down the sign, the expression on Ted's face damn near shatters Trent's heart. Ted, looking almost shell-shocked, glances between Beard and Roy multiple times. Trent is half-tempted to yank the thumb drive out and crush it beneath his heel.
Only wearing his Converse, it wouldn't do anything other than feel like he stepped on one of Amaya's legos with his bare feet.
When Nate makes the epic belly flop thanks to the rolly chair sliding out from under him, Trent wishes he would have left well enough alone. (He's not sure if he means himself or Nate, which is a fucking awful feeling.) Snickers come from both Beard and Roy when Nate eats the floor.
Ted says nothing. Trent isn't even sure if he's breathing.
Finally, Shelley gets the sign down, and he can hear Roy mutter 'here we go' under his breath when he takes it back into the office.
The video started around 16:58:02, and barely forty-eight seconds later, it's Ted who reaches out to hit pause.
"Where'd this come from?" Ted asks, gesturing at the laptop, then shoving his hands into his pockets.
It's at that moment Trent realises with horrific clarity: Ted already knew Nate was the culprit. He knew and he hid it.
Why, Ted? Admit when things are falling apart, don't sweep it under the rug and pretend it's all okay.
Beard hasn't even moved, staring at the computer screen as if he could set Nate on fire wherever he is in the world just by glaring.
"This fucking legend," Roy jabs his thumb in Trent's direction, "thought to pull the security footage when we told him about the sign."
Trent moves his hand from where it's been braced against his chin for most of this conversation as if to say 'yep, that's me, I'm the legend' and pulls his glasses off again. Granted, he's not quite sure how he went from being shouted at in a shower by Roy during their week two match to being called a fucking legend, but here we are. He'll take actual praise over not-even-thinly-veiled contempt any day.
"I guess you can take the boy out of journalism but you can't take journalism out of the boy," Trent says.
Something passes between Ted and Trent, and this time when Ted turns away from him, Trent's stomach plummets toward the vicinity of his knees. He tries not to wince, knowing he just implied that, no matter what, he'll always consider himself a journalist. Fuck. He'll need to clear that misconception up... as soon as there are two fewer people in the office.
"Right, you fucking ruined it now," Roy huffs. Well, that's better. Roy's annoyed with him. Balance has been restored to the universe. "The point is, the answer we were looking for has arrived."
Ted's forehead goes all wrinkly and he swallows hard. "What are you talking about?"
At long last, Beard looks away from the laptop to swivel his head up towards Ted. "A video like this could motivate a team, perhaps."
Trent keeps his head bowed away from Ted, afraid to see whatever expression lies there. Ted Lasso has a horrible pokerface. If he's thinking it, then it's painted clear as day on his face. Trent's petrified of what he'll see reflected in Ted's eyes.
Excitement? Then Rebecca's and Roy's need to win will have finally rubbed off on Ted and he's learned to give a damn about wins and losses like everyone else.
Disappointment? Then he can't believe Beard, his right-hand man, would stoop to suggest such underhanded tactics.
Contempt? Then Trent's no better than the fucking tabloid writer who does nothing but see the worst in others and exploit it for his own personal gain.
Three options and all of them will break his heart in equal measures.
It's only after he feels Ted's gaze land on him that he hazards a glance of his own back at the gaffer. Ted's twitchy, it's the only way he can describe it — and Trent wants nothing more than to take the other man in his arms and calm every thought racing through his mind.
Even just to take his hand...
"Thank you for your help, Trent." Ted starts gesticulating and Trent knows he's fumbling. Treading water. "May a young Robert Redford portray you in a film someday."
Robert Redford? Leave it to Ted to pick one of the most attractive actors to play a guy with medium-to-average looks. Why doesn't Ted just ask him out on a date in front of the whole coaching staff? That would probably be more fucking subtle.
Beard looks up at Ted as if to say 'get a damn room already'. Whelp. Beard does know more than he lets on.
"Probably Dustin Hoffman," Trent corrects. Partially based on looks, but still keeping the reference to All the President's Men. He needs out of there. "Good night," he says quickly, heading toward his office without really waiting for anyone else to speak.
A chorus of goodnights follows him.
"Go home, guys. Get some sleep," comes Ted's voice from the adjoining office.
Trent, however, doesn't go home. Not yet. Not when guilt is practically eating him from the inside out. Easing himself into his chair he sets his glasses on the corner of his desk and braces his head in his hands. God damn his need to know who did this. What does it matter? It happened almost six months ago. The sign was torn, Ted clearly knew and pretended it was fine — he should have left well enough alone.
Roy passes behind him as he heads out for the night. Trent's not quite sure if Roy brushed him by accident or if that was an intentional 'good job, Crimm' pat on his shoulder. Accidental. He doesn't need Roy Fucking Kent to be proud of him.
He never fucking should have —
"—your... Sassy situation."
Oh fuck, he should have left when he had the chance. Trent shouldn't be here to listen in on Ted and Beard's conversation. Especially when it centres around the woman Ted flirted with and undoubtedly went home with last night.
Trent doesn't need a healthy dose of jealousy on top of his current helping of guilt.
"Oh. Yeah?" Ted asks.
"Jane's sister is in town—" Beard begins to say.
"No thank you, Coach," Ted interrupts before he can say another word.
"That's the right answer."
Trent can't help but snort, hoping the sound is muffled by his hands. Beard says nothing more, and the next thing Trent hears is the sound of the door leading to the dressing room swinging closed.
Silence stretches a few more heartbeats and Trent's almost ready to slip out, hoping Ted didn't realise he'd been eavesdropping.
"That you, Trent...?"
He stays still, as if a lack of movement will fool Ted into thinking he's alone.
"Trent, I know you're there."
With a sigh, Trent pushes back from his desk and comes to hover at the doorway between offices. "What gave it away?" He asks, lifting a brow.
"You're not exactly subtle, Kurt Ru—" Ted cuts off before it can get away from him. "That one doesn't work. Anyhoo." He tries for a smile but fails miserably. "Well, I knew you were here 'cause you always leave through the locker room."
He's not sure if he should be charmed that Ted's taken notice of his habits, or annoyed that he's fallen into a predictable behavioural pattern in just seven weeks.
"I was not trying to pass judgment—"
Ted cuts him off with a wave of his hand. "Naw, you were tryin' to pass judgement Mr Judgy McJudgerson, and you have every right to, too. What's the saying, don't stick your..." he trails off, shaking his head. "Well, I think you and me both know the phrase about sleeping with folks who aren't mentally well."
"Don't stick your dick in crazy?" Trent supplies, amused at the way Ted's cheeks heat.
Ted responds with a finger gun in Trent's direction. "That's the one, Roy Orbison."
Trent hovers a few beats longer at the door, but as he turns to go back towards his office to gather the rest of his belongings, Ted stops him.
"Can... Can I ask ya somethin', Trent?" He asks, gesturing for Trent to come into his space instead. The joking tone is gone and Ted sounds as serious as a heart attack.
Frowning, Trent does as requested, perching on the edge of Ted's desk with his hands clasped in his lap. Trent mentally flicks through topics of conversation, but none of them fit the serious tone or the way Ted's eyebrows have knit together — deep grooves lining his forehead.
"Am I a mess?"
"I beg your pardon?" Trent asks, his own face screwing up in confusion.
"I said, am I a mess?" Trent stares at Ted for another beat, trying to decide if it's a trick question. Ted continues with a sigh, "I slept with Sassy last night."
"...oh."
He doesn't mean for it to come out like that; to sound like some jilted and jealous lover — but it does and there's no way to swallow that sound back down.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't talk about this with you. Do me a favour and be a goldfish and forget about all this in about seven more seconds."
Trent runs a hand through his hair, then rubs the back of his neck thoughtfully. "It isn't that at all," Trent lies. "We're both adults. We've never defined what we are so, you're free to do whatever and whomever you desire. So am I."
Even if Trent hates the way his stomach clenches at the thought of someone else going home with Ted. Good thing he didn't try to ring the gaffer after he saw Colin with that mystery man of his.
"I asked her out."
Trent bites the inside of his cheek before he can make that jealous tone again.
"I asked her out," Ted repeats, as if Trent didn't hear him and scrubs a hand over his face. "I mean, s'not like we talk a bunch or anything. Heck on a stick, I don't think she's texted me since almost the beginning of the year if I'm bein' honest here. But she didn't even hesitate. Immediate no. Boom. Talk about knockin' a fella down about thirty pegs all at once. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars."
A frown returns to Trent's face as he listens to Ted's monologue. His own feelings aside, he can't understand why someone would turn Ted down. Sure, there's the whole who wants to get involved with someone for his rebound relationship when he's still in love with his ex-wife thing to contend with — but Ted's nice. Charming. The sort of guy who cares about everyone else before his own needs are met.
Even the puns and the midwestern quips are endearing as hell.
"Did... she say why?" Trent asks, forcing his voice even.
Ultimately, it doesn't matter that this conversation feels like it's slashing his heart to ribbons. In this moment he's nothing more than Ted's friend, not his partner or anything remotely romantic. So, he needs to be a friend and not act like he's some wounded, aggrieved party.
"Because I'm a mess," Ted replies. "Which is why I was askin' you if I was a mess. Beard's opinion doesn't count. But if you wanna know, he said I was, by the way. Just like her. Immediate yes." Ted scootches his chair a bit closer, resting his arms on Trent's knees as he looks up at him. "I'm askin' you, Trent Crimm, Independent Novelist. You tell the truth to everyone, even if they don't want to hear it. So. Tell it to me straight, Alex the Great — am I a mess?"
There are two options:
- Lie and say he's not a mess.
- Tell the truth and hurt his feelings.
Trent's going round and round with which is the best course of action; arguments for both sides are strong. In the end, he's quiet for a bit too long and Ted groans in response, filling in the blank that Trent didn't want to say aloud.
"So everyone thinks I'm a mess 'cept for me, is that it?" Ted tips forward, practically dropping his head into Trent's lap as he groans. "Well, this is just great. The two folks I like-like both think I'm an undateable mess. Send the batter back to the dugout because he's strikin' out all over the place. Baseball metaphor."
Ted straightens abruptly as if he suddenly realised just how close his mouth was to Trent's groin. He goes from one extreme to the other, leaning back in his chair and covering his face with his hands. Well, that won't do. If they're going to talk, they're going to do this face-to-face.
With a sigh of his own, Trent reaches out, long fingers wrapping around Ted's wrist to pull his hands away.
"That isn't what I'm saying whatsoever," Trent begins. "Just because you're a mess doesn't mean you're undateable or unworthy of a relationship."
"You're just saying that because ya want in my khakis."
Trent chuckles, releasing Ted's hand. "Can I tell you a story? I think it might help."
Ted sits up straighter. "Oooh, the sort that needs popcorn or the sort that's gonna put me right to sleep? Should we leave? I can get all cosy in bed first."
He rolls his eyes. "So, this guy's walking down a street, when he falls in a hole. The walls are so steep. He can't get out. A doctor passes by, and the guy shouts up, 'Hey you! Can you help me out?' The doctor writes him a prescription, throws it down the hole and moves on. Then a priest comes along and the guy shouts up, 'Father, I'm down in this hole, can you help me out?' The priest writes out a prayer, throws it down in the hole and moves on. Then a friend walks by. 'Hey Joe, it's me, can you help me out?' And the friend jumps in the hole! Our guy says, 'Are you stupid? Now we're both down here!' and the friend says, 'Yeah, but I've been down here before, and I know the way out.'"
The longer Trent speaks, the farther Ted's head tilts to the side. Those eyebrows seem to be working overtime as his brow furrows and relaxes, Ted's fingers twitching the whole time.
"Fine and dandy, nice story, bro, as the kids would say — but I don't see how it helps."
Trent worries his lip between his teeth. "Sassy's like the doctor or the priest. She can identify that you're a mess, tell you some unhelpful advice, but doesn't want to date you. And, well, that's okay. She has her boundaries and I respect that."
He doesn't agree, mind. But he respects her for not compromising herself for Ted's sake.
Ted nods, seemingly pleased that Trent's not making her out to be the villain of the piece.
"What she failed to realise, however, is that sometimes you need a friend. Someone who's been there before who isn't afraid of getting their hands dirty."
At some point, Ted's shifted closer once more, resting a hand on Trent's thigh. The touch feels calming, grounding. Trent should feel like he's Ted's second choice — since the gaffer had no problem pulling Sassy last night, sleeping with her, got rejected by her and now has moved on to the next available person. But all Trent sees is a man he's come to care very deeply about in a crisis.
"You, too?" Ted asks.
"My ex and I married as soon as it was legal in England," Trent replies. "Adopted Amaya a couple years later. I could probably point to a hundred and one different reasons as to why it never worked out between us, but all that matters, in the end, is that it didn't. He went his own way and I went mine. We co-parent and... mostly get along. For Amaya's sake." He tries to smile but it comes across more like a grimace. "He's dated on-and-off and I'm married to my job." A pause. "Well, was married to journalism."
"Still am sorry 'bout that," Ted mutters under his breath.
"Nothing to apologise for. I've told you, it was only a matter of time before I had my fill." Trent reaches out, almost cautiously, fingertips brushing along Ted's jaw. It's late and they're alone and he doesn't have to worry about them being caught. "We're all messes, Ted. That's what makes us human."
Ted closes his eyes and leans into that gentle touch. "So you've been down here and know the way out," he murmurs and Trent nods. After a moment, Ted turns his head just enough to kiss Trent's palm. "You're not mad?"
"About...?"
"Me and Sassy. Honesty hour time. Don't make me say Oklahoma."
"Oklahoma?" Trent asks, confused.
"Thing Michelle and I used when we wanted the other to tell the truth. So. Oklahoma."
A sigh. "Can't say I'm thrilled, but I meant what I said. We're not together so we're both free and I get why she'd be your first choice to date—"
"Except that doesn't make you my second choice," Ted interrupts, rising to his feet. "This sounds super crappy of me, but presenting straight is just... easier around these parts. But you, Trent Crimm, aren't a consolation prize." He moves closer to Trent now, nudging Trent's knees apart so he can stand between them. After a beat, Ted cups Trent's cheeks.
Whatever Trent is about to say dies on his lips because Ted's kissing him. In the office, in full view of the CCTV that he's already shown captures this exact view. Still, as Trent's hands settle on Ted's hips, he can't bring himself to care.
"So..." Ted says softly as he bumps his nose against Trent's. "I'm a mess. But a fixable one. And one who's choosin' you, if you'll have me. Even if it's gonna be hard for us."
"Coach Mess,' Trent teases with a grin, happy when Ted shuts him up with another kiss. This one is far from innocent and god it makes his toes curl in his chucks.
They're both works in progress — but Trent has a feeling they'll be able to untangle each others' messes — and come out stronger on the other side.
Together.